August 24, 2011

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  Dylan

   

  There was a time before the tumultuous passages of our present existence

  When hours were modified by gentler venues… less immediacy… more tempo between ticks

  When softer more moderate ambience was searched out by the players among us -

  And so it came to pass that a transient tavern for impoverished GI Billers

  Was happily discovered at 15 East 7^th Street in lower Manhattan...

   

  McSorley’s Old Ale House – Established 1854 -

  Master brewers of the finest malt-gruit Ale ever produced

  A proud mash secretly flavored by heather flowers from the bogs of Ireland

  And juniper and ginger from obscure eastern sheikdoms

  Concocted in the dank cellars of this pre-Civil War tenement with ultimate and loving care...

   

  And we – being aware of the holiness of this venerable establishment...

  Would make our way in the early evening hours - exhausted from our creative labors

  To the dimly-lit saloon with its saw-dust covered floors

  And its elaborate carved Gay-Nineties bar with its polished brass spittoons -

  Depositing ourselves exhaustively with foaming mugs of regenerating nectar

  Within that ample back room – round checker-covered tables – Near-rancid cheese

  Platefuls of stale hard rye and plentiful slices of gone-soft onions -

  To ease the poignant hunger built up in those pre-acrylic linseed and turps-odored studios

  Of The Cooper Union School for the Advancement of Science and Art - just down the block...

   

  And there in the smoke-filled foggy confines of that blessed room one hot summer night

  After collecting a few coins from each of us to stand him another pint -

  A drunken Welshman with a most glorious voice

  Steadied himself against an ancient beam and recited his immortal medieval “villanelle"*

  About his dying father...

   

  “Do not go gentle into that good night

   Old age should burn and rave at close of day

   Rage, rage against the dying of the light

   

   Though wise men at their end know dark is right

   Because their words had forked no lightning they

   Do not go gentle into that good night

   

   Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

   Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay

   Rage, rage against the dying of the light

   

   Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

   And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way

   Do not go gentle into that good night

   

   Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

   Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay

   Rage, rage against the dying of the light

   

   And you, my father, there on that sad height

   Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray

   Do not go gentle into that good night

   Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

   

   

   *The highly-structured "villanelle" is a nineteen-line format with two repeating

      rhymes and two refrains. The final stanza of four lines repeats the two refrains

   

   

   

   

   

  • 10:26 am
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